Surrender of a Siren
Page 21

God, what he wouldn’t give just to kiss her …
He rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest. That same ache lingered there—the same sharp tug he’d felt when she’d brought her foot down on his and pursed her lips into a silent plea. Please, she’d said. Don’t
. As if she appealed to his conscience.
His conscience. Where would the girl have gathered such a notion, that he possessed a conscience? Certainly not from his treatment of her. A bitter laugh rumbled through his chest, and Joss shot him a skeptical look.
“Believe me, I’ve scarcely spoken to the girl in weeks. You can’t know the lengths I’ve gone to, avoiding her. And it isn’t easy, because she won’t stay put in her cabin, now will she? No, she has to go all over the ship, flirting with the crew, tacking her little pictures in every corner of the boat, taking tea in the galley with Gabriel. I can’t help but see her. And I can see she’s too damn thin. She needs to eat; I put food on her plate. There’s nothing more to it than that.”
Joss said nothing, just stared at him as though he’d grown a second head.
“Damn it, what now? Don’t you believe me?”
“I believe what you’re saying,” his brother said slowly. “I just can’t believe what I’m hearing.”
Gray folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “And what are you hearing?”
“I wondered why you’d done all this … the dinner. Now I know.”
“You know what?” Gray was growing exasperated. Most of all, because he didn’t know.
“You care for this girl.” Joss cocked his head. “You care for her. Don’t you?”
“Care for her.”
Joss’s expression was smug. “Don’t you?”
The idea was too preposterous to entertain, but Gray perked with inspiration. “Say I did care for her. Would you release me from that promise? If my answer is yes, can I pursue her?”
Joss shook his head. “If the answer is yes, you can—and should—wait one more week. It’s not as though she’ll vanish the moment we make harbor. If the answer is yes, you’ll agree she deserves that much.”
Wrong, Gray thought, sinking back into a chair. Regardless of the answer, he knew she deserved far better. Damn it, he couldn’t even enjoy the fantasy of destroying that striped frock. Because he knew she’d only one other to wear, and he’d be too concerned over whether she possessed the needle and thread to mend it. Because the pattern might never match up right again; the stripes would be off, and the effect would be a bit less lovely than before. Because he would have taken something from her, destroyed something beautiful and perfect … and never again would she look at him with those clear, trusting eyes and tug on his heart. Please. Don’t.
Gray punched his thigh. This was why when he took a fancy to a woman, he pursued her, sampled her, and moved on. Becoming acquainted first ruined everything.
Agitated, he hooked a finger under his neck cloth and pulled it loose.
“Care for her,” he muttered. “How could that be possible? I’ve scarcely gone near the woman in weeks.”
“I don’t know how it’s possible, but it seems to be true. In fact, I think you’re half in love with her. More than half, perhaps.”
Rising from his chair, Gray straightened to his full height. “Now wait. I’m half out of my mind with lust, I’ll grant you that. More than half, perhaps. But I
’m certainly not in love with that girl. Don’t forget who you’re talking to, Joss. I keep my conscience in my bank account, remember? I don’t even know what love looks like.”
Joss paused over his desk. “I know what love looks like. Using up all those Portuguese goods on one meal, killing a valuable goat, bringing out porcelain from the cargo hold … Crack one plate, and you’d lose half the set’s price. Serving meat onto a lady’s plate.” He shrugged. “Love looks something like that.”
Gray ran his hands through his hair, shaking off the lunatic notion before it could take root in his brain. “I’m telling you, I’m not in love. I’m just too damned bored. I’ve nothing to do on this voyage but plan dinner parties. And it’s about to get worse. No chance of cracking a plate tonight.” He jerked his chin at the lamp dangling from a hook, which on any normal night would have been swaying in time with the waves. “If you hadn’t noticed, we’re becalmed.”
“I’d noticed.” Joss grimaced and motioned for the flask. Gray tossed it to him. “Good thing we’ve given the men a fine meal and grog tonight. Becalming’s never good for the crew’s morale.”
“Not good for the investor’s morale, either.” Gray rubbed his temples.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t last.”
The calm lasted for days. For all of Christmas Day, and all of Boxing Day, too. The idleness that began as a welcome holiday quickly became a hardship to all aboard the Aphrodite. By the third morning, the same men who’d spent Christmas singing and joking were sniping at one another and grumbling under their breath at every order. Without wind, there was little for them to do but mend the rigging and scrape the chains. Men’s equivalent of needlework, Sophia mused, eyeing the foot-long marlinespikes the sailors used to reeve and splice the lines. The crew had her sympathy. She’d always detested needlework.
The sky was cloudless, the air was listless, the men were restless. And above all, it was hot. Hotter than Sophia could ever have dreamed. The tropical air smothered her like a thick, woolen blanket.
With no breeze, the cabin became an oven. Sophia had no intention of staying inside. The men rigged an unused sail into a canopy, and she sat on a crate beneath it, fanning herself with her drawing board and sketching from time to time. Watching the mast’s shadow crawl across the dock. Sitting absolutely, perfectly still.
Mr. Grayson, by contrast, was in constant motion. He roamed between hold and deck, fore and aft, seemingly the most restless man aboard. Sophia hadn’t known what to expect, after their furtive exchange beneath the dinner table. She’d lain awake half that night, counting the bells that marked each half-hour. At first, sensual excitement clanged through her with each sharp ring. As hours passed, the buzzing pulses turned to pangs of trepidation. Then, as night gave way to morning, hollow disappointment reigned. Capricious, teasing man. Why hadn’t he come? Surely he couldn’t have desired any clearer invitation.
But he hadn’t appeared that night. Not the next morning, either. By the time she finally crossed paths with him the following afternoon, his mumbled “Merry Christmas” was the extent of their exchange. It seemed they were back to silence.
I don’t want you.
She tried to ignore the words echoing in her memory. They weren’t true, she told herself. She was an expert at deceit; she knew a lie when she heard one.
Still. What else to believe, when he avoided her thus?
Although he rarely spoke to her over the next two days, Sophia frequently overheard him speaking of her. Even these remarks were the tersest of commands: “Fetch Miss Turner more water,” or “See that her canopy doesn’t go slack.” She felt herself being tended, not unlike a goat. Fed, watered, sheltered. Perhaps she shouldn’t complain. Food, water, and shelter were all welcome things.
But Sophia was not livestock, and she had other, more profound needs. Needs he seemed intent on neglecting, the infuriating man. On their third morning of calm, Captain Grayson ordered the crew to put in the longboat. This order was met by loud grumbles and curses among the sailors.
“What is it?” Sophia asked as O’Shea stomped past.
“The captain’s ordering us to go out in the longboat and tow the ship. He’s hoping if we move around, we’ll find some wind. But rowing in this heat …”
The big Irishman squinted and wiped his brow with his forearm. “It’ll be a bitch.”
O’Shea walked off without even apologizing for his language. Sophia couldn’t blame him. She would be cursing, too, if she had to perform hard physical labor under this blistering sun.
The men took three shifts, each with one officer and four men out in the longboat, rowing with all their might for an hour to make little discernible progress. Sophia watched with sympathy, but also with fascination. While out on the longboat, the men removed their shirts, and she took the opportunity to make discreet sketches. Even from a distance, she could plainly see their cord-like muscles, their vivid scars and exotic tattoos. These men were a far cry from the languid Greek marbles she’d been taught to copy. They were imperfect, perspiring, striving, and most of all, real.
But soon the heat swamped even this diversion, as the pencil slipped from Sophia’s sweaty grasp and rolled away.
Drat.
She couldn’t be bothered to chase it.
One hour blurred into another after that. The men continued through their rotations, one crew rowing, the other overhauling rigging, the third at rest. Mr. Grayson had disappeared belowdecks.
Davy Linnet walked past, and Sophia perked. “Good afternoon, Davy,”
she said, smiling. Ever since the Tropic crossing, she’d made an extra effort to favor Davy in front of his crewmates. Even in this sweltering heat, courage deserved its reward.
“Good afternoon, Miss Turner.” He ducked his head to hide a shy grin.
“You’re looking very well, Davy. I’d wager you’ve gained a stone since we left England. They won’t be able to call you ‘boy’ much longer.” She tilted her head in coquettish fashion. “Do they have you in the forecastle yet?”
He shook his head and scratched the back of his neck. “Still have a lot to learn, miss. I’ll make it there soon.”
“I’m certain you will.” She smiled again, and the lad blushed. Sophia knew how much he craved admittance to the forecastle, where all the sailors bedded down. He’d been sleeping in steerage since the voyage began, and there he would remain until he’d proven himself, in both ability and character.
“Man aloft to splice the fore topgallant lift!”
From around the foremast, Quinn grumbled and began moving toward the ratlines.
“I’ll do it.” Davy dodged in front of the sailor, throwing him off balance. Quinn gritted his teeth, but profanity flowed freely through the gaps. “Out of my way, boy, or I’ll throw you to the sharks.”
“I said, I’ll do it.” Davy held out a hand. “Lend me your marlinespike.”
Quinn gave him a skeptical look. “This is sailor’s work, boy. Have you spliced a cable before?”
“I’ve practiced on deck.”
The older man harrumphed and elbowed the boy aside.
With a glance in Sophia’s direction, Davy stepped in front of him again. He stood undeterred even when Quinn puffed his chest and drew up to full height, a full head taller than the youth.
“Let me do it,” Davy insisted. “How can I learn if you don’t give me a chance to try?”
Quinn paused, staring up at the mast. Then he wiped his brow and looked back at the boy. “If you want to climb up there in this heat, I won’t stop you.”
He unknotted the marlinespike from his belt and slapped the needle into Davy’s outstretched palm. “Don’t cock it up, or I’ll gut you myself.”
With those words of encouragement, Davy sprang into the rigging. She watched his ascent for a while, and then he climbed out of her sight, behind the canopy. Sophia decided her loyalty to Davy did not extend that far, as to wilt and freckle in the tropical sun while he repaired a bit of rope. She would conserve her energy for congratulating him once he finished. She waited, chin propped in her hands. Her eyelids grew heavy. She was drifting … drifting …
Thwack.